


Gold on the Ceiling

by betweenfactandbreakfast



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Shopping, Vivienne introduces Finian to her seamstress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 17:13:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3658527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betweenfactandbreakfast/pseuds/betweenfactandbreakfast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vivienne introduces Finian to her seamstress. Dorian accompanies them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gold on the Ceiling

**Author's Note:**

> This is 2000% because i wanted to write about Thedas fashion... title by the Black Keys lmao.

“Inquisitor, may I introduce Madame Violette?” Vivienne said, describing a genteel arc in the air with her hand towards the seamstress, a spindly woman with- in Dorian’s opinion- an altogether too enthusiastic proclivity for rouge.

“You may,” Replied Finian bemusedly, sticking out his hand for Violette to shake. 

Violette gingerly wrapped perfectly manicured white fingers around the tip of Finian’s hand and gave it a meek shake.

“My dear, Madame Violette is the finest tailor in the capital and the _only_ one I trust to see to my attire.” Vivienne smiled in that particular way she had. “Violette, my darling, this is Lord Inquisitor Lavellan, and his…” One could almost see her pretending to choose the right word. Vivienne was, as ever, a delight. “…companion, Lord Pavus, formerly of Minrathous.”

Violette turned a brief, pinched gaze on him, the exact one most people did when they figured out he was from Tevinter. Dorian returned it with the slightest raise of one eyebrow.

“So, she makes all of your clothes?” Finian asked. “I mean, does she come up with the designs herself?”

Vivienne gave an airy laugh. “Of course, _I_ have a say in all the designs. Otherwise they’d hardly have my signature touch, would they?”

“And then she makes them?” Finian caught Dorian’s eye. It was plain he was intrigued by the notion.

When Dorian had met the Inquisitor, he’d assumed that all Dalish dressed so bizarrely, but since encountering that clan on the Exalted Plains, it was clear that all the feathers and misplaced foliage and other dangly bits were very much unique to Finian. And now, with the help of pockets newly brimming with gold, he was starting to realise the limitless potential that lay before him.

“What do you think I should have made, Dorian?” asked Finian, brushing his hands along the fabrics that were hung in orderly fashion against the wall.

“Whatever you wish, Amatus,” replied Dorian. “The world, after all, is your oyster.”

He watched closely as Violette’s eyes flicked from him to Finian- calculating, Dorian knew, what precisely lay between them. It was a little dance he’d seen performed a thousand times lately, and each time it was a jolt. Being so… _open_ about it all was so new and wonderful it made him lightheaded, but it was still difficult shaking off the old worries. And even so, they couldn’t be completely open. Not so open that any rumour could ever solidify into anything more substantial than a rumour.

“You must give me more than that,” Finian said. “I’ve never really done something like this before.”

“You would look lovely in gold,” Dorian conceded. “It would match your _Vallaslin_.” He still stumbled over the foreign word a little, but Finian beamed at his remembering regardless.

“Not all of us have delved as _deeply_ into Elven secrets as you, my dear,” Vivienne said, tone rife with double entendre. “You will have to translate, I am afraid.”

“His tattoos,” Dorian clarified, rolling his eyes at her.

“And it requires little delving to discover,” added Finian. “But I’d like to get back to the matter at hand.”

All three of them snapped to attention. It really was uncanny, the air of authority this slight elf commanded. Dorian wondered if he’d always had it, or if it was borne of the same unnatural means as the anchor that split his palm.

“A new coat?” Vivienne suggested. “Midnight blue with gold ornamentation.”

 “I think this would look very handsome,” Violette agreed, and Dorian realised to his surprise that he hadn’t heard her speak until now. She had a heavy Orlesian accent, as one would expect from someone who looked so heavily Orlesian. “We can make an appointment to discuss specifics later, if you decide you wish to enlist my services.”

“Is there somewhere I can see the sort of things you can make?” asked Finian. “Before I, uh- enlist you.”

“Of course,” Violette indicated down the hall. “There is a showcase in the gallery. You simply must feel free to look.”

“Very well, I shall,” Finian nodded. “Come on, Dorian.”

He really was getting the hang of the imperious-exit thing that nobles in Orlais and Tevinter alike were all so good at. Amused, Dorian followed him.

“What did you think of her?” asked Finian once they were out of earshot, taking his arm.

“Oh, you know. Very _Orlesian_.” Dorian said.

“To be expected, in Orlais.”

“I know, it’s just… for all their exuberance, I find the trajectory of Orlesian high fashion rather dull.” Dorian said. “Every once in a while, someone will do something _bigger_ than the rest and that will be extolled to the skies, but really it’s just a larger skirt or a live bird on someone’s head rather than a dead one. It’s all really very predictable. And those damned masks! Orlesian fashion confines itself, and in doing so dooms itself to mediocrity.”

“Are things so different in Minrathous?” asked Finian.

“Of course they are. Here, everyone tries to follow the rules, but it’s no ‘Game’ in Tevinter. People know better than to gamble their lives. And thus it becomes simple- those who can’t defend themselves fade into the shadows, and those that can endeavour to break as many rules as they possibly can.”

“How very introspective of you,” remarked the Inquisitor. “What about me?”

“What about you- what?”

“What does my clothing say about me, or the Dalish, whatever?”

“Well, if you were the only Dalish I’d ever seen, I’d think they were all mad,” Dorian said. “But I saw the ones in the Exalted Plains, and they looked very different.”

“Yes, imagine if we weren’t all exactly the same,” Finian said amusedly. “It’s not as if there’s distinct clans or people among the Dalish, no ser.”

“Very well, that was foolish of me,” Dorian admitted. “But it seems to me a smaller, concentrated society like the one you grew up in allows for better self-expression of an individual. Here one tends to get lost in the muck.”

 “Perhaps you are right.” Finian said, starting to walk down the hallway towards the gallery. "Let's see what Madame Violette is capable of, shall we?"

He pushed open the door. Inside the spacious room were a dozen or so tall glass cases, housing elegant outfits, ballgowns, robes. Lots of frills, lots of taffeta, lots of gold trim. All very nauseating. A few, however, were not so bad.

"I like that cape," Dorian pointed at it.

"Do you want it?" Finian asked immediately, and Dorian cringed inwardly. He'd been noticing this more and more lately, the way the Inquisitor jumped to spill coins at whatever caught Dorian’s fancy. It probably was of little consequence to Finian, who wasn't accustomed to money or the way things worked in a society that revolved entirely around it- he certainly couldn't see the ramifications of spending such an exorbitant amount on his scandalous Tevinter lover. He couldn't imagine what people might think. Dorian, however, could. And did.

"No, that's alright." He said quickly.

Finian shrugged, moved on to the next display. It was an evening gown, made of some floaty ivory stuff, with an open back and gold embroidery lining the edges. Dorian noticed Finian's eyes lingering on it.

"Is that the sort of thing you want?" Dorian said, gently.

Finian turned to look at him, his expression almost guilty. He looked as if he were going to start saying something several times, before changing his mind. "Maybe," He said finally. "I don't know."

Dorian understood this perfectly- it had been most thoroughly crushed out of him as a boy. He had vague recollections of trying on his mother's gowns and powders and what-have-you, parading around in front of the mirror, a one man show. Alas, it was fun that he was only to be soundly scolded for when his parents returned and caught him.

"I think you would look beautiful in it," Dorian said. "Even more beautiful."

Finian laughed. "Oh, I know. It's just that it’s strange to me, the concept that certain clothes have to have certain genders attached to them. We have no such thing among the People."

"It's a bit of a silly thing, honestly," Dorian remarked. "And as I was saying, yet another constraint Orlesian fashion forces on itself."

"But not Tevinter?"

"Well, yes, in Tevinter as well," He frowned. "I suppose it's a human thing, then."

"I see," Finian said, looking down at his hands.

Dorian felt a twinge in his heart, as he often did when the Inquisitor was anything less than happy. A bit pathetic, really, but Dorian had long since given up fighting it.

“Look,” He said. “Hang what those shrivelled old codfish think. You’re the Inquisitor. Nobody can tell you what to do.”

Finian’s expression cleared; he laughed. “I’ll remember that.”

“Good,” Dorian said, wrapping an arm around his waist. “And who knows, maybe you’ll change the face of Orlesian fashion forever.”

“I’ll give it Vallaslin.” Agreed Finian. He leant into Dorian’s chest, playing with the rings and bracelets that adorned his hand.

“Perfect,” Said Dorian, and kissed him.


End file.
